
ND N0\ 


mum 

t & 

■when. the mormr\c^ 
broke with joy; ^ 
UJhen the night cs^rtve-4 


(JJhen there were no woes 
or troubled in a \\fhj 
securcyrom fiarm; 

Hake rrieback*-]’m homesick- 
heartsick,- -to that old 
li/e orv thej/arnv-r' 

Vyaybe you Jaave j/elb 

^/as I do when your li/e 
I Seemed dull and cj ray 
(pben you longed/or wings 
like eagles'that could 
carry you awayT'*^ 
‘lliat could, take y^vi 
where they loved you.wfcre 
your golden d reams came 
true 

In the dear old childhood 


Stisl 




























Class ' v 3 g: 5 
Honk " >.■ ' c k~ 
Copyright N° !"’ 10 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 























THEN AND NOW 


SELECTED VERSES 

By 

HARRY L. MARRINER 

“The News Staff Poet” 


Illustrations by John F. Knott 
Decorations by Ben B. Lewis 


» » 
.» ) 
^ ) ) 


DALLAS, TEXAS 

<Q\)t lOrstmt p «00 


1910 


COPYRIGHT 1910 

By Harry L.. Marrineh 

ALL SIGHTS RESERVED 

Published October, 1910 


These verses are reprinted through 
the courtesy of the Galveston-Dallas 
News, in which they originally appeared 
as a daily feature. 


WILKINSON PRINTING CO. 


Library of Congress 



2009 525068 


©CLA272801 






X 

tx 




r^ 

I flo 



O those who, day after day, 
have read these foolish 
verses on the front page 
of the Galveston-Dallas 
News for three long 
years, who have wept 
sincerely when “the staff 
poet” tried to be funny and who have 
laughed with equal sincerity when he 
ventured into the pathetic, and who, 
concealing their outraged feelings, have 
generously forborne the logical employ¬ 
ment of the brickbat and the storage 
egg, this little volume is tremblingly de¬ 
dicated, by 

The Author. 










ARE DAYS when 
the g o 1 d e n-rod 
beckons a man 
with a soul, out of 
doors; 

When the whisper 
of breezes insist¬ 
ent lures them 
from the office or 
stores. 

Out where there is 
Nature triumphant 
r who points out her 
wonders so new— 
The wonders of 
Springtime’s crea- 
t i o n ; the much 
that Dame Na¬ 
ture can do. 


Could you, oh, ye busy inventor, make 
buds, or the moss on that tree? 

Oh, Science, can years of your study make 
clover or gold-banded bee? 

Alchemist, could your transmutation make 
streams that of silver are made? 

Or, Painter, could you mix the colors that 
flash from the hillside or glade? 

Could you, silver-voiced Prima Donna, 
that crowned heads of Europe have 
heard. 

Make music like that in the tree-tops from 
some little, flute-throated bird? 


So now is old Dame Nature smiling and 
calling men outside to view 
The wonders she works every season—the 
things that no mortal can do. 

























ARE you, sweet old- 
r fashioned girl, the 
sort we used to know. 
Who had clean thoughts 
of things worth while, 
not all about a beau? 
We haven’t seen your 
face for years; per¬ 
haps in gentle way 
You’ve drawn far back 
on being shocked at 
what we see to-day. 
Your soul, as pure as 
virgin snow that in 
the valley lies. 

Shone on a world of folks you loved, 
through gentle, modest eyes. 

And as you passed where evils stalked, 
grim evils, seme unnamed. 

They bowed their heads before your glance 
and slunk away, ashamed. 

We’ ve missed you, sweet old-fashioned 
girl; the girls we have today 

Think less about God’s holy laws than 
party, ball or play; 

They may be honest, clean and pure, yet 
think it no disgrace 

To choose a walk where evil lurks, and 
meet it face to face. 

They know much that you never learned 
in all your sheltered life; 

The mud of morals, ruined souls, deceit 
and selfish strife; 

And how can we, compared with yours, 
look on their souls as clean. 

Sweet and unsullied, when we know what 
they have heard and seen? 




















[a 


CLOSE 

times 

through a 

' TheTld things tha 

| our people loved, 
_] now lost in mod¬ 
ern years; 

The simple, honest, 
homely things 
merely made 
sell, 

But each a part of some old home its 
pie loved so well. 

There is the quaint rag carpet bright; 
patchwork quilt they knew; 

The solid, stolid, homely clock, th 
ters queer and blue; 

An ugly chair that some one loved, 
both its arms are worn. 

Its legs are scarred by children’s feet; its 
hickory seat is torn. 

And there’s a bureau—dresser, now—so 
fat and deep and wide; 

A crooked mirror on its top, with drawers 
on each side; 

The tester bed that weighs a ton, set high 
above the floor — 

But these were treasures of the days to 
come to us no more. 

And now we gather shiny things—bright 
varnish, paint and brass. 

We want our mirrors framed in gilt and of 
imported glass. 

For times have changed, and with the 
change has come a modem view. 

But one that can’t quite kill our love for 
some old things that we knew. 































USED to see her 
every day when 
you would go to 
school; 

If she were late you’d 
drag your feet, re¬ 
gardless of the 
rule 

That kept you in for 
being late, but you 
were glad to stay, 
Because though pun¬ 
ishment be hard, 
you’d seen her, anyway. 

And one glad day, with flaming ears, 
and braving laughing looks, 

You marched beside her, stern and pale, 
and carrying her books. 

And in that simple act of yours, to brave 
the world so far 
Was heroism of the sort that takes a man 
to war. 

She’s married now, and so are you, yet 
sometimes in your dreams 
You see her just as in those days, so real 
the vision seems, 

And you can feel again the joy, the utter, 
full delight \ ' 

That came when from her apple core she 
let you take a bite. 

The world may move along its path and 
bring its changing ways. 

But hearts of men go back at times to 
happy childhood days, 

And nothing seems so dear and sweet in 
years life passes through 
As that time when you loved a girl in old 
school days you knew. 























DEAR 

is the 
the cowlot 


mai 

da} 


laintam 
lys of my 
ith; 

cornstalks that 
covered its mud, 
ever present; the 
le that always 
had holes in the 
roof. 

I see myself wading 
to get at the milk¬ 
ing; my fingers are stiff as a poker 
from cold. 

The calves have a strength that is weird 
and deceptive, and hunger has ren¬ 
dered them savage and bold. 

The wind whistles gayly across that bleak 
cowlot, and gooseflesh and shivers 
hold me in their grip, 

Wherefore—who can blame a cold boy 
if, when milking, he hastens like 
blazes, forgetting to “strip?” 

They’re milking cows now with a vacuum 
cleaner; you sit in the parlor as calm 
as you please. 

With only the fear you’ll have need of a 
plumber if ever that milkline com¬ 
mences to freeze. 

It’s better by far than a seat on a soap 
box with mud on your neck and 
your fingers like wood, 

But somehow I miss it, that stalk-littered 
cowlot; it’s funny, but I would go 
back if I could. 


























E h e r face some- 
as you into the 

_ 0 ht gaze. 

The little sweetheart that 
you knew in boy¬ 
hood’s callow days; 
Her face was like a 
sweet wild rose; her 
soft hair, glossy 
black, 

a s like a gleaming 
d rope, and 
a n g i n g down her 
back. 


W 


\nd how you loved her! Sakes alive! 
You couldn’t sleep o’ nights; 


You gloried in your blackened eyes ac¬ 
quired in bitter fights 
Born of the statements other boys made 
just to anger you— 

That she was uglier than Grace; not 
near as nice as Sue. 

And when you saw her down the street 
you trembled at the knees; 

Your head felt like a boiling pot; your 
hands and feet would freeze. 

And blindly you would turn aside and 
walk six blocks or so. 

Because—well, just because you felt— 
you felt—oh, well, YOU KNOW. 


She wouldn’t bite, of course, but still in 
youthful days that were 

You loved so hard you’d walk a mile to 
keep from meeting her. 

Just why it was you never knew, and no 
doubt never will. 

Though memory of that fevered love of 
boyhood haunts you still. 





















I I ' 



world 

\ 1 

i\ k xoAa/ is the matter 

with 

\ 1 
\ \ 

U W Sammy? 

He’s 




gloomy and touchy; 
remarkably still; 

He don’t care for break¬ 
fast; he scowls at the 
baby; now can it be 
possible Sammy is 

ill? 

Think back on his age 
in your life, oh, ye 
father; remember your change to an 
ill-tempered churl. 

Not that you had suffered some grievous 
misfortune, but merely because of 
your love for some girl. 

Observe him. He’s sitting out there by 
the stable; a fuzz of white whisker 
adorning his chin; 

His eyes, fixed and glassy, are staring and 
vacant; his hands hang beside him; 
his toes are turned in. 

He’s thinking. Ah, let him alone! Don’t 
disturb him; in misery deep he is 
drinking sweet joy; 

And you did just like him—what use 
to deny it? For if you did not, 
you were never a boy. 


/ 


i 



















THOMPSON’S 
Store! It used to be 
a landmark every¬ 
body knew, 
stood right on the 
public square, a 
queer old place and 
dirty, too; 

But, somehow, every¬ 
body passed the nice clean stores on 
that same street, 

For Thompson’s boxes were the ones to 
hold their elevated feet. 

He kept the apples under wire; you 
couldn’t blame the man for that; 

He moved the crackers and the cheese 
away from where the ioafers sat. 

And every now and then he’d sigh and 
take to some location far 

The apricots, like leather tabs, and move 
the biggest pickle jar. 

Yes, Thompson’s store was just the place 
a man could use to kill an hour; 

Hie floor was full of kerosene, molasses 
spots and dabs of flour; 

It smelt like ham and tea and paint, and 
calico and chicken coops; 

The yard was full of hogs and cans and 
broken eggs anl barrel hoops. 


But if I could I’d run away and go back 
to that place once more. 

And sit on some old box and chat back 
in the end of Thompson’s store. 





























WDfllSN 



YOU were little, 
and a book was 
loaned to you one 
day. 

Don’t you recall your 
feelings when they 
took that book 
away 

And told you they 
must read it first— 
it might be tame 
and mild 

Or might be one unsuitable to be read 
by a child? 

And Father sat and read your book, and 
chuckled as he read. 

And you sat there and gnawed your nails, 
not with your soul in dread 

For fear you‘d never read the book, but 
it occurred to you 

It took an awful, fearful time for Father 
to get through. 




















/ / 


/ 








/ 


/ 


/ 


/ 


\ / 



MET in the woods; 
] t 1 j was hunting, and 

LI Ull 1—3 U she had been gather¬ 

ing flowers; 

The dogwoods were 
white with their blos¬ 
soms ; the thickets 
seemed Fairyland 
bowers; 

They sat on a log and 
^ they chatted, for 
years had gone by since they met. 
And talked of old times and old friend¬ 
ships, of happiness and of regret. 



He never had married, he told her—she 
had; and her life was complete, 
And then, at a sound from the distance, 
she rose in alarm from her seat— 
“My children!” she cried, ‘‘I forgot 
them! I wonder if they are all 

She called, and with answering chorus 
came thirty-eight infants in sight. 


He fled as if followed by demons; she 
wondered what brought it to pass. 
For she had neglected to tell him that 
they were her Sunday school class. 


\ \ 
\ \ 



















I 





V/rv 

lreisf 

Ml 

J[0N 


SHE was a little 
maiden, barely old 
enough to speak. 
When her world was 
one of sunshine, 
and its problems 
dense as Greek, 
She came to her 
mother weeping, 
saying “Katy’s 
eyes are blue; 
Mamma, mine are 
plain old brown 

ones—can’t I 1 - 

some blur 

^ too?” 

And today she is consistent; once her hair 
was ruddy brown, 

Then it changed to suit the fashion, and 
was like a golden crown; 

And she changes like an artist on the 
scintillating stage; 

Makes her waist-line short or lengthy— 
just whatever be the rage. 

She is pale when fashion rules it, 
sunburn without sun. 

And in such a skillful manner that the 
color will not run; 

And all shapes and forms and fashions of 
her figure she has tried, 

But as when she was an infant, she is still 
dissatisfied. 













































MORNINGthey 
would greet us, morn¬ 
ing glories, sweet and 
cool; 

Fragile blue and crimson 
trumpets, as we 
started off to school; 
Blooming in the dewy 
morning, massed 
upon their trellised 
vine, ^ 

But to shrink to flower 
corpses when the sun 
began to shine. 

Looking back, our lives seem like them; 
hopes we held, once pure and sweet. 

Now are shriveled, brown and lifeless, in 
the world’s consuming heat; 

Once we felt their inspiration, all that joy¬ 
ous hope may give, 

Finding that, like morning glories, what is 
sweetest cannot live. 

Yet today the morning glories spread and 
blossom as of old. 

Every morning on their trellis brilliant 
trumpets they unfold; 

But we know now—Life has taught us, 
through its lessons of the past— 

They are like our hopes, those blossoms— 
far too sweet and pure to last. 
















“IKES 


WHEN autumn 

rolls around, and 



thrills run through 
you as you see 

9 *< ^ 

The red and gold 


leaves on the 


ground; the ten- 


der lace-work of 


each tree: 




And sniff the scents 
of autumn time— 
the fruits and ber¬ 
ries touched b y 
frost. 

The leaves beneath 
the old rail fence 
by sweet, crisp breezes piled and 
tossed, 

Vou think how good it is to live where 
nuts are ripe and squirrels call, 

And where one’s heart swells with the 
joys that mark the perfect days of 
fall. 


You think of the Creator then, whose 
miracle before your eyes 
With scarlet leaf and golden grain and 
mellow tints before you lies. 

And breathing deep the frosty air, and 
treading on the carpet brown 
And drinking in the sights and sounds— 
the sumac’s flaring autumn gown. 
The yellow beeches on the hill, the squir¬ 
rel, like some bounding ball. 

You thank the God who made the year 
that ripens in the days of fall. 






















HEN the day’s hard 
work is ended, and 
for home my steps 
are turned. 

And I glory in the rest¬ 
ful hours my day of 
toil has earned. 

How my heart leaps 
glad and merry, as 
the lady I adore 
Puts her hands upon my 
shoulders ere my foot 
can touch the floor. 


had better keep your coat on** is 
her opening remark; 
i must bring me in some kindling— 
do it now before it’s dark, 
you’d better shut the water off at 
once while there is light, 
s getting so much colder it is sure 
freeze tonight. 

'*’• broken in the furnace, and I 
is wrong, 

now, dear—it won’t 

g * • \ 
>rgot it—while you 

on, please, 

to the grocery and 

g me back some cheese? 

it in the order or I wouldn’t call 

9 

you wouldn’t mind it, for 
thing else to do.” 



















\ 




MEMORIES it brings 
to me, that old 
clothes line of ours; 
Between the shed roof 
and a tree it wield¬ 
ed magic powers. 

A plain old line of cot¬ 
ton rope, but night's 
dark shadows hid 
In charity and kindli¬ 
ness the 
clothes line 

When Uncle Abner, late one night, 
out to split some wood. 

And raised the ax on high to strike, 
any woodman should, 

We knew he’d hurt himself 
because the air was blue 
And people five miles down the 
heard and knew it, too* 




Then father tried to catch the 
almost was a sin 
To laugh when he was swinging there, 
and hanging by his chin. 

He didn’t catch the calf that night be¬ 
cause we had to laugh; 

And we caught it instead—that is—I 
didn’t mean the calf. 


And one dark night the preacher came 
and walked beneath that line. 

Next day we found his silk hat, but the 
cows had spoiled its shine; 

But that line wasn’t taken down, not 
much, I tell you that— 

The washerwoman that we had was 
mighty strong and fat. 


She’d put it up to stay, she said, and 
though these pranks it played, 

She didn’t want it taken down, and you 
can bet it stayed. 
























TIMES we look back 
on the days when we 
would kneel beside 
the bed. 

And memory goes 
sweeping back to 
those sweet, childish 
prayers we said— 

“If I should die before 
I wake, 

I pray the Lord my soul 
to take—’’ * * * 
Perhaps our thoughts 
would go astray to childhood’s flow¬ 
er-fields, and then 

e’d earnestly try to forget, and say 
the little prayer again— 

‘Now I lay me down to sleep 
pray the Lord my soul to keep—’’ * * * 

What would you give today, oh, man, to 
feel, when on your bended knees 

The knowledge of a prayer God hears— 
the cooling sense of utter peace 

That came to you when, as a child, be¬ 
side the old wood bed you knelt; 

What would you give, uncertain man, to 
have the confidence you felt? 

Perhaps God hears our prayers as then, 
but we who know what life has 
shown— 

What evil since those childhood days, in 
torment of the spirit moan. 

For God, we know, heeds children’s 
prayers; 

Are ours as sweet and pure as theirs? 




























E WONDER, Dear, 

if you recall that 
happy night in 
June 

When we rode out, 
a jolly crow 
where with its 
light the moon 

Made all the turn¬ 
pike silver - white 
-as clear and bright as day 
As we, with merry song, crouched in a 
wagon load of hay? 

I held your hand, or thought I did, 
some one near you yelled; 

It was the chaperon, my dear, and h 
the hand I held. 

And she arose quite scandalized, a 
slapped with all her might— 

Not me—by night all cats are gray—1 
fellow on her right. 

I wondered whose on earth they were— 
those feet on which I sat; 

They seemed like mine and yet were not; 

they felt too thick and fat. 

I wondered if you claimed 
was afraid to touch. 

For if they happened to be 
wouldn’t like it much. 

That moonlight ride upon the hay I never 
shall forget; 

I crouched for hours like a Turk, and 1 m 

bowlegged yet; # , , 

I’ve been afraid to ask you since what that 

ride did to you. 

But I’m a Sherlock Holmes, my dear 
you sat that same way, too. 


























TOE was tied up in a rag, 
but such a trifle didn’t 
hurt; 

You stood a-straddle at the 
plate, and with your bat 
you thumped the dirt; 
Two men were out, and on 
each base a barefoot 
player loud and tense 
Requested you to hit the 
ball and send it clean across the 
fence. 

Then from your home there came a call— 
‘‘You Jim-e-e-e-e-! Come home 
right away.” 

You thought of what you caught last 
night when you’d forgotten to obey. 
And on the ground your bat you cast, and 
sadly through the yellow dust 
You shuffled toward your home, your 
soul steeped in a madness of disgust 


4 


A 


AX 




It happens, too, to older folks, that when 
there comes a lifetime’s chance. 
When but a moment is required to either 
stagnate or advance; 

There comes a call; the chance is lost, and 
just as in your barefoot play. 

You dare not hesitate; instead you throw 
that glowing chance away. 



V 



















A LITTLE old 
house in town that 
I know, 

f* And if I am wealthy 
some day, 

I’ll buy it no matter 
how hard I must 
work, 

Or how much they 
ask me to pay. 

It’s only a cottage all 
covered with 
vines. 

And might be as 
nothing to some. 
But that little cot¬ 
tage is all that I want. 

Because once I knew it as home. 

I know every picket upon the old fence; 
Each tree I regard as a friend; 

I love all the bushes that grow in the yard. 
And gladly, how gladly. I’d spend 
The whole of my fortune to have it once 
more. 

And hold it and treasure it, too— 

That cheap little cottage, now old and 
decayed— 

The happy old home that I knew. 




































w fEkm 


CAN we have a 
nickel?” How it 
takes one back to 
hear 

That so oft-repeated 
question, while the 
children wait in 
fear 

Lest no nickel be 
forthcoming, and 
because of it, alas. 

They must let some 
little pleasure 
greatly wanted by 
them pass. 


How it takes us back, oh, fathers, back a 
hundred years or so. 

To a time when nickels counted, as all 
children used to know. 

Now they hit us for a dollar as a moderate 
request. 

And the answer to the question is what 
every child has guessed. 

Times have changed a little, father; in 
your happy childhood day 

You’d have felt like Rockefeller if a dime 
had come your way; 

And a quarter! You’d have fainted from 
an overdose of joy 

If you had so much real money when you 
were a little boy. 

























\\w\ \ \ 


YOUR memory’s a 
good one, in a sort 
of hazy dream 
You can look back in 
the distance to the 
time you froze the 
cream; 

When they packed 
the fat, green 
freezer in the good 
old-fashioned way 
Saying, “Turn, you 
little divvle; there’ll 
be company to¬ 
day.” 


Then you turned and turned and turned 
it, ’til your little arms were sore. 

And a stream of salty water ran in wiggles 
on the floor. 

And the ice and salt got melted in a solid 
Arctic pinch, 

And they sank down in the freezer—way 
below it by an inch. 

S f / / f f J * J I t 

Then the awful strain and labor—it no 
longer classed as fun; 

And your tongue waved like a banner, 
but it wasn’t nearly done. 

And the only thing that held you—made 
the grit that pulled you through. 

Was the fact that there’d be dinner, and 
you longed for ice cream, too. 


! f 

j I! 

I;// 

\ t ii/// 


W , ///// 

\v V / r / s- x 

v\\\ 5 //✓0 



* 


A j 





















FATHER, dear-fa¬ 
ther, in going to 
town, please bring it, 
whatever you do; 

We need it so badly; 
remember it, sure; for 
for we are all count- 

































battered a baby 
has used in the 
past in its play; 
But oh, how 

mother regards them! That doll 
the cotton-wool cow. 

For one time a little one loved them—auu 
no baby plays with them now. 

Wrapped safe in a cover of tissue, they 
rest in a drawer apart; 

Why save them? Who blows how 
mother finds solace for aches of 
heart? 

They’re precious; more precious than dia¬ 
monds, that doll and the cotton¬ 
wool cow. 

For one time a little one loved them—and 
no baby plays with them now. 



















1 



LADY, in thy dainty 

, home, established; 
whose soul revolteth 
at its many cares. 
Who griev’^t at the way 
the ice box Ieaketh, 
the dust accumulated 
on the stairs. 

Think back upon house¬ 
keepers gone before 
thee; contrast in all 
its horrors with thine 
own 

The life led by the lady 
in the kitchen back in 
the grim, untutored 
Age of Stone. 

She had no mice supported by her pantry, 
but still the pterodactyl flew about. 

And kept her busy with a handy sapling 
to shoe the oak-tanned leather crit¬ 
ter out. 

The mastodon would trample down the 
garden, and creatures of the sort thou 
dream’st upon. 

Would peer through windows while she 
did her sweeping, and smile at her 
while they were looking on. 

' T X 

Her cook book was a solid slab of granite; 
she scrubbed the table with a piece 
of brick, 

And often had to stick her head out 
through the chimney, because the 
smoke inside her cave was thick. 

Thou burn’st gas now in thy scheme of 
cooking, when quarters do not stick 
inside the slot; 

Think on thy comforts, lady of the kitchen, 
rejoicing in the troubles thou hast not. 
























ON this earth there 
lived but two — my¬ 
self, the lesser one, 
and you. 

And there was sun¬ 
shine every hour, our 
home averitable 
bower. 

Just two of us; 

And you were by my 
side always; not once apart through 
nights or days, 

Just as you are, my love, today; and I 
was just about that way— 

How we would fuss! 



O' 


But for the facts our school books teach, 
you’d move as far as you could reach 
At times like these, 

While I would also turn and flee, and we 
would once more meet at the 
Antipodes. 

S / / 'Ilf 

So we could scrap, and both declare we 
wished this globe-like earth were 
square. 

For I would seem just what I am, and 
you would be like too much jam 
I’m very sure; 

And if this old world held so few—my¬ 
self, just what I am, and you, 

We’d want to have some others, too. 

Or be still fewer. 


:V 


1 = 




















I 



the yard the children 
rmed a man of yellow 

im on a bit of 
ank when they were 
through their play; 
y And on that clay-man 
beamed the sun, and to 
a cloud said he: , 

“I’ll pulverize that day¬ 
man sure, Miss Cloud; 






just look at me.' 

He beamed and glowed on that mud man 
and frowned with fiery will. 

But the result was but to make that clay 
man harder still. 

The little cloud she laughed aloud; then 
to the sun she said: 

‘Turn off your heat, old Mr. Sun, and 
look at this instead.” 

She covered up her face and wept; the 
drops of rain fell fast. 

And soon that clay man came to be a 
muddy spot at last. 

“No fair; no fair!” the sun cried out; 

“your tears were fakes and lies;** 
“That’s how to win,” the cloud rejoined, 
“No woman ever cries 
When she would melt a man’s hard heart; 

you’ve lived for many years. 

But my! How much you have to learn 
about a woman’s tears!” 



























( [fa(r ->vt 

■ a\' ) Vvs^ 



OLD man dozed in 
the grocer’s chair; 
the stove was 
warm, and the 
snow outside 
Whirred in the grasp 
of the biting wind 
that, screaming, 
rose and with 
moaning died. 

His eyes were closed 
and his gnarled 
old hands gripped at the arms of the 
chair he held. 

But filled with the scenes of the years long 
past, the heart in his shrunken bosom 
swelled. 

* * * * / & ¥ 

Over the fields swines a line of blue; out 
from the hills streams a column gray; 

Silvery sweet is a bugle call; a cheer by 
the wind is snatched away. 

When suddenly ripping along each line, 
billows of smoke clouds are loosed 
in birth. 

And a shattering roar of ten thousand guns 
shakes skies and the trees and the 
sun and earth— 

****** 

The old man’s face was aglow in sleep; 
his gnarled hands clutched at the 
battered chair, 

When a younger hand seized his withered 
arm and dragged him out in the 
bitter air. 

“Get out, ye bum!” growled an ugly 
voice: “we don’t keep a hotel fer 
bums in here.” 

And the old man sighed, for his lovely 
dream had gone, and the present 
was cold and drear. 


\ 


! 




\\ 

\ i / 

A\ /// 

v \\ Ife 





























them and 
cared for them. 
Mother; you plan¬ 
ned out a future 
each; 

No title too great for 
your babies; no 
honors too high for 
their reach; 

And now that they’ve 
homes and are 
married—your ba¬ 
bies once cunning 
and small— 

ve room for their guests in abund- 
but no room for Mother at all. 
as birds leave their moth- 
with less thought than 


and that ends it; 
plainer than words, 
see their firesides, and 
great or small 
who bore them 
or Mother at all. 























? <^GO back, all ye gray old 
men, some getting stiff 
and weak. 

To when, as bare-legged 
'f little boys, we waded in 
the creek 

And captured crawfish 
underneath the wet and 
slimy stones. 

While down the creek the 
loons gave voice to 
low, rasping moans. 
There goes a big one!’ 
you would shout, 
crawfish with a 
Shot backward in a 
of mud; you followed with a 
And cornered him beneath a 
pried it up an inch 
To grip him by his armored 
such old sinners pinch. 

And when the sun was giving 
shadows gray and wide. 

You had your crawfish in a can—great 
big ones, goggle-eyed; 

And took them home—what for? Now 
say; you know it just as well! 

If you asked any boy, he’d grin, ashamed, 
but couldn’t tell. 





















I I 


3 


ON the porch beneath 
the vines the water- 
bucket stands 
Of cedar, polished 
smooth by time and 
bound by metal 
bands; 

And in it, as with wa¬ 
ter cool it stands 
upon its board. 
There floats—oh, days 
of olden time! a great, 
long-handled gourd. 


Take from me all your cut-glass things; 
your silver cups and gold; 

The water from their modem lips is never 
sweet and cold 

As when it drips with silver notes into 
that bucket’s hoard. 

From where you lift it brimming in an old 
age-hardened gourd. 



















/ 







FAIRIES grow 
weary of labor 
when children 
their magic has 
taught 

Grow large—into 
men and to women 
—a n d pass by 
their works with¬ 
out thought. 

They care not 
delicate cobwebs 
spun bright with a 
shimmer of frost; 

The hues of the won¬ 
derful flowers, un¬ 
noticed, are wast¬ 
ed and lost; 

The perfume o f 
honey-sweet clover the fairies by 
magic have sown 

Is wasted—alas, little fairies,/ your chil 
dren are hopelessly grown. 

What use to make Junebugs metallic, 
bronze-green on the back and the 
wing. 

When children have grown and no longer 
take joy flying them on a string? 

What use to paint butterflies gayly or 
perfume the woods or the hay 

For they have grown far from the fairies 
and live in the sordid today. 




























\ 










4 

I 



OTHER racing 
day has gone; past 
are its hopes and 
fears, 

Past are its one-time 
cherished tips; 
gone are its “sure 
thing” steers. 

And some ride home 
while some come home 


m auto cars, 

outside; — — 

In fact, sometimes it costs too much to take 

a street-car ride. 

# * * 

They’re coming out in single file, their 
skins like satin gleaming, 

Their dainty heads are tossed aloft, their 
eyes with gladness beaming, 

A bunch of good ones all can see; the 
sky is clear and sunny; 

Ha! See ’em lining up to start—it’s Four¬ 
teen for our money! 

They’re OFF! Hurrah! A whir of sound, 
a dust cloud backward flowing. 

All in a bunch they sweep around— 
D’jever see such going? 

They’re coming fast! Two far behind; 

their jockeys madly whipping 
And one’s in front—is that Fourteen?— 
the others far outstripping. 

\\\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ R \ I 

Come on! COME ON! Hurrah! Good 
boy! The frantic crowds are bawl¬ 
ing; \ \ \ \ \ \. 

A blur of color flashes past, the slashing 
whips are falling, 

A bell clangs out; the cheers keep on, 
a storm of human thunder; 

And where’s Fourteen? He’s not here 
yet—where can he be, I wonder? 




















YOU heard the birds 
a-singing in the 
days you used to 
know, 

f When you saw the 
grass a-springing 
through the sun- 
rent veil of snow. 
Then your heart 
grew big, within 
you, pulsing slow 
and glad and 
deep- " 

’Til you thought about spring tonics that 
your mother used to keep. 

Every day she’d grab and dose you—it 
was sure to do you good; 

It was thick and smelled like matches—all 
except the sticks of wood, 

And you’d long for fall or summer ’til 
your heart would almost break. 

For *twas sulphur and molasses that your 
mother used to make. 

To be sure, when spring’s pale flowers 
were a-peeping through the green, 
And the skill of Nature’s brushes had em¬ 
bellished all the scene. 

You would loaf about, half-torpid, like 
some winter-sleeping snake. 

But you DIDN’T need that tonic that 
your mother made you take. / 


/ 


\ • 


I 

I 

i / i 


, /// 
\\|i lyA 


\ \ 1 i 


/ 

/ 

/ i 

/ 






































A BLOCK around the 
corner was old Mr. 
Miller’s place, 

Where he’d plane an* 
^ saw an’ hammer, an 
get sawdust on his 
face, 

An’ we used to hang 
about him, for he 
liked us little girls. 
And he’d stop his saw 
to let us grab some 
nice, long shaving, 
shaving curls. 

we’d sit down on his lumber—there 
was always plenty there, 

And sometimes you’d think ’twas really 
curls we fixed up in our hair— 
Yellow curls that bobbed and twisted, 
clean and thin and smooth and fine, 
th the heat of summer in ’em and the 
smell of yellow pine. 

And I’d like to go back yonder with the 
other little girls. 

Just to beg old Mr. Miller for some of his 
shaving curls. 


























I 

I 





The actors pass, they come and go, they 
play their foolish little parts. 

To add their little to the joy already fill¬ 
ing loving hearts; 

Such foolish, painted people 
play at love—it’s 
And those who watch 
cause no actors c 
they. 


The play goes on 
until the curtain 
Rolls down, a blea 
chill an audience 
Left side by side, but 
lovers long to 
The world seemed 
but somehow, 


The play is 

audience alone is real. 


*0 HE world is just a 
sort of stage — 
footlights before 
and flies above; 

The play is going on 
always—the audi¬ 
ence is Those in 
Love; 

It sits and watches, 
hand in hand, and 
does not for a mo¬ 
ment feel 

Life—it’s all a fak ‘ v 


t 




























EFORE the fire¬ 
place, wide and 
deep, old Mammy 
dozes in her chair. 
Above, the flickering 
shadows creep on 
rough hewed raf¬ 
ters, black and 


The fitful flashes 
from the fire send 
shafts of transient, 
ruddy light 
Across her spotless kitchen where she 
keeps her vigil, through the night. 

i sleep departs; all faithful souls like 
Mammy have to realize 
can not sleep and watch “light rolls’* 
d on the heated hearth to rise; 
ismay, with anxious gaze, she 
into her pan of bread, 

that smile of older days— 
her grim despair and dread. 


all is well, the clock ticks on—a var¬ 
nished wonder brought from town. 
She shifts her pan, her wide jaws yawn, 
and once again she settles down; 

She lights her cob pipe with a coal, and 
as the smoke in azure rings. 

In fanciful, erratic scroll ascends, she 
rocks herself and sings: 

“Awn Jawdon’s stawmy banks I st-an* 
An* casteh wishful eye 
To Ca-a-a-a-anan’s faih an* happy lan* 
Wheah mah possesshuns lie.** 






















LIVE ACROSS the 

street from us; 
their name we 
never knew. 

But we can tell ’most 
any time what 
they intend to do, 
Because they send 
across to us, before 
each act or deed 
To ask if we have 
such a thing, and 
borrow what they 
^need. 


The old man sprained his back last week 
while setting out some flowers; 

We know—they had no liniment, and 
had to borrow ours; 

And just the other day it was, they made 
a jelly cake. 

And got our pan, of course, and failed 
to wash it, by mistake. 

Whenever we need anything, our ax or 
saw or nails, 

Or hoe or rake or hose or spade, our bas¬ 
kets or our pails 

We never look where they were kept, but 
know just what to do— 

We send across the street and ask to have 
them when they’re through. 








































HAZE of smoke, like 
evil clouds, hung o’er 
the music hall; 

The blurred and dingy 
sporting prints showed 
dim against the wall; 
And as the music rolled 
and swelled; the viols 
rasped and screamed, 
A man, his face hid on 
his arms, amid the 
discord dreamed. 

At tables slopped with 
dregs of beer the 
crowds with ribald joke 

Leered at the tawdry, dirty stage through 
reeking fumes and smoke. 

Unnoticed by the throngs, he hid his worn, 
embittered face, 

And dreamed of days that would not stay, 
amid this sordid place. 

jp & x & % 

He saw himself a little boy, beside his 
mother’s chair; 

She told him “fairy stories” while she 
smoothed his rumpled hair; 

There was no evil in the world—no pain 
—he sobbed aloud; 

With streaming eyes, he felt his way, half 
blindly, through the crowd. 

And stood out on the murky street while 
screeching devils leered, 

And urged him with his twitching hands 
to kill the men who jeered. 

But in his agony he prayed, and passed 
the fury wild; 

They found him lying cold in death, with 
ashen lips that smiled. 

But no one knew a mother’s love at last 
had saved her child. 





























MAN and a maid 
in a hammock sat 
Under the pale, cold 
moon; 

The hammock 
bulged (for they 
both were fat) 

In the shape of a ba- 
balloon; 

The suffering trees 
that the hammock 

" held^^>> 

Bent low in their 1< 
of hope. 

And grumbled low in their pain and 
In the ear of the straining rope. 

The old rope snarled and it creaked 
groaned 

In the throes of its awful 
Its fibers popped and il 
In the toils of its grief and 
And then of a sudden was 
The suffering trees in relief 
And the pole moon 
were jarred. 

For the drop was sharp a 
was hard, 

And the hired man came 
spade 

And filled up the hole that those lovers 
made. 


% 







































BACK in the golden 
days, don’t you re¬ 
call the games we 
played. 

And chief among them, 
standing forth, the 
wonderful see-saw 
we made? 

The carpenters had 
stopped their work 
and locked their tools 
up for the night. 

But left a saw-horse and a plank—a love¬ 
ly plank, exactly right 
For balancing across that horse, so long 
it had a springy bend 
When we would get it boosted up and 
then would straddle either end. 

How high we went! It took your breath 
when we were ’way up in the air. 

It felt just awful when the weight below 
you kept you hanging there. 

Then down you’d go, and as you drop¬ 
ped from up above the world so 
\ \ \ high \\ \ N. N, 

It seemed as if you’d left your soul stuck 
’way up somewhere in the sky. 

And then the boy you see-sawed with, 
when you were as high as you could 
go \ 

Would roll off, and you dropped like 
lead, ker-wollop on the ground be¬ 
low. 

Your head was jerked into your chest; 
you bit your tongue and things like 
that. 

But oh, the pinwheels, stars and sparks 
you saw when on the ground you 
sat! 























DEAR to 
are the 
childhood, 

When fond recollec¬ 
tion presents them to 
view; 

The grindstone I turned 
for my father to 
sharpen his ax—and 
he threw all 
weight on it, too 

The strength of a farm-boy has no limi¬ 
tations; at least that’s the way they 
impressed it on me; 

So when I turn back to the days of 
boyhood, my father, his ax and 
grindstone I see. 

The stone was lop-sided; its bearings were 
rusty; it turned with a grating, a 
squawk and a rasp; 

The handle had split, and the iron it went 
on me callouses under my unwill¬ 
ing grasp. 

And pa kept me busy; he urged me to 
hasten in order to get through the 
job before night, 

And when he got through he would do 
it all over, in order to fee! we had 
done it just right. 

If ever I’m lost in the last day of judg¬ 
ment, I’m morally sure I will not 
have to burn; 

Ah, no; there’ll be imps there with pitch- 
forks to sharpen, and I will be given 
the grindstone to turn. 



















/ 


YOU are crouching 
by the fire, and 
shivering despite 
its heat; 

When on the win¬ 
dow panes re¬ 
sounds the patter¬ 
ing of snow and 
sleet, 

Your thoughts some¬ 
times speed back 
to days when in 
the cold you were 
content. 

When you would al¬ 
most pray for snow, and didn’t care 
what frost-bite meant. 

With ears wrapped in a woollen scarf and 
cheeks a vivid purple-red. 

You’d plunge with whoops into the snow, 
—the lovely snow—and drag your 
sled, \ \ 

And people as the hours passed by would 
step out on the porch and scold 
For fear you’d freeze, and you would 
shout—“Come in? What fer? 
W’y, we ain’t COLD!’ 


many years ago; your 
hair have both grown 


that’s been 
blood and 
thin; 

And mention of the snow and ice makes 
gooseflesh on your tender skin. 

And as you shiver, how you wish that 
just as in those days of old. 

When blood was young and warm and red, 
and life was one bright blaze of gold. 
You wouldn’t shiver, but could shout— 
'Come in? What fer? W’y we 
ain’t COLD?” 






























HE just can’t bear 
to rest; he’s rest¬ 
less as can be; 

He potters all about 
the place, and 
straightens up a 
tree, 

Or nails a picket 
on the fence, or 
throws rocks in a 
pile, ^ 

And when you ask 
him why he does, he answers with 
a smile: 

M Oh, well, I sorter hate to rest. I’ve had 
my work so long 

It seems to me if I should stop that some¬ 
thing would go wrong. 

Don’t bother, boys. I’m gettin* old; what 
little work I do 

Don’t count beside the hard days* work 
you young ones can get through. 

I’m wearing out now, pretty fast for such 
a strong old man— 

You’d better let me go my way and do 
what work I can.” 

It makes ma cry sometimes when he 
comes in so tired and weak 

From workin’ like that all day long that 
he can scarcely speak. 

But he just smiles his queer old smile 
that’s sad and happy, too, 

“Go ’long,” he says. “W’y all my life 
I’ve had my work to do.” 


GRANPA 






























WAS winding col¬ 
ored zephyr, and 
the young man, 
full of joy. 

Held it on his hands 
and told her he 
did that when just 
a boy; 

But he didn’t, from 
his station at her 
feet, but yet sub- 
^ lime, 

/v- Tell her that his feel¬ 
ings differed—very much so—at the 
time. 


For his mother was the winder, and from 
his unwilling hands 

She would wind with skillful motion on a 
ball the purple strands. 

Pausing now and then to slap him as he 
dropped a coil or so. 

Or had kept his fingers rigid and forgot 
to let it go. 

He would watch the others playing, with 
the eyes boys have behind. 

While his forward eyes were wearied 
with the ceaseless wind and wind. 
Counting every loop he loosened from the 
hands that weighed a ton. 

For sometimes a small boy’s torture to a 
man is merely fun. 


















GIVE it all up if I 
could, the life we 
live today; 

And go back to the 
dear old times that 
seem so far away. 
For try as hard as 
mortal can, you’re 
very sure to find 
The sweetest periods 
of life are those we 
leave behind. 

Don’t you recall the 
water pail that 
held the handled gourd? 

The basin where you wash your face, out¬ 
side there on a board? 

The honest food we had to eat, the hon¬ 
est beds for sleep, 

And how through honest window frames 
the morning sun would creep? 




We had no counterfeits those days, in 
men or what they made; 

The homes we built were solid homes, 
and where they rose they stayed; 

And friendships that we gained we kept, 
for all the world was good. 

I’d give it all up—what we have—and 
go back if I could. 


- 

- 





















































USED to get up in 
the cold when you 
and I were little 
fellows; 

The air was crisp, 
and autumn leaves 
were gay with 
scarlet tints and 
yellows; 

The woodpile with 
i t s gnarled old 
sticks with frost 
was white and 
thickly coated. 
And pa, you will 
recall, went out and saw that pile 
and simply gloated. 

Since early youth we*d used a saw, our 
sluggish wit, urged on, discerning 
That sticks four feet or more in length 
were not of sizes fit for burning; 
And pa would show us what to do, but 
we had no real use for showing— 
For autumn days of other years had taught 
us all we felt worth knowing. 


It’s lots of fun to take a book and read 
about the fires of winter. 

But did you ever saw for hours, and only 
pause when some big splinter 
Got in your thumb, and when about the 
mud was sticky in its thawing. 

And pa back in the stable lot would shout 
for you to keep on sawing? 



















THE field a little 
daisy stood and 
nodded at the sun; 

She was bright and 
brisk and merry, 
and her one 
thought was of 


that 


And the sun, 
stern old sinner, 
frowned on her 
with all his might. 
Striving hard to wilt 
x and crush her 
dainty petals, soft 
and white. 

But the happy little 
daisy smiled to see 
his heated frown, 
*Til the night’s cool shades were falling 
and the sun was going down. 

With his harsh face tinged with sadness 
as he slowly went to bed. 

And the daisy, now repentant, hung her 
dainty little head. 

All night long she drooped about it, feel¬ 
ing in her little heart 

She had hurt the sun, poor fellow, and 
her tears began to start, . [ 

But with morning came the sunshine, and 
a smile of ruddy gold 
Cheered her heart, and made her merry as 
the sun beamed as of old. 



























squas 


tender tones 1 
i, that we mis 
gether on life 
oar flew up i 
with ring of 1: 
maiden smiled 
“Oh, Jawge, 




An o 
wi 

The maid 


ROWED about the 

silent lake along its 
wooded shores; 

Her eyes were fixed 
upon the moon, while 
his were on the oars; 


liLull. Her dress was like 


a 

washing - rag, h i s 
knuckles scarred and 

red, _ 

Her hat was crooked, 
where an oar had 
rapped her on the 
head. 

His shoes were full of 
y mud; his knees were bruised 
sore. 

felt like a punching bag, from 
:t with an oar; 

sy traveled ’round the lake, in 
he sighed — 

t drift on always to¬ 
e’s tide.*’ 

and whacked her head 
bone on wood; 
a happy smile— 

I wish we could!** 



























WEEDS are high 
p on grandpa’s farm; 
the fences, old and 
torn, 

No longer guard his 
well-tilled fields; 
the roads, once 
smoothly worn, 

Are grown with 
grass, and one can 
find no trace of 
wheel-marks there. 


• //■ 


For Grandpa now 
has gone to rest, and others do not 
care. 

There is the rose-bush that he loved, with 
crimson blossoms crowned. 

Although its limbs, unpruned and bent, 
now drag upon the ground. 

The garden where he used to walk at 
evening all alone 

Is grown with gnarled and twisted shrubs 
and weeds the winds have sown. 

But Grandpa now has gone to rest, and 
no hand labors there 

To keep the old place that he loved— 
for others do not care. 


// 


/// 



























YOU are sitting 
by the fire, burned 
low in your dim 
room; 

When in the shadow 
ticks the clock, and 
all about is gloom. 
Sometimes a thought 
comes with its 
pain, flashed 
through your weary head— 

And how you wish a voice would say— 
“Come, dear, it’s time for bed.’ 


»» 


It’s been so long since some one cared; 
\ since one’s affection deep 

Watched through your hours of wakeful¬ 
ness and watched your hours of 
sleep; 

And now you watch the clock yourself, 
and view its hands with dreads 

For you must sleep, and no one says— 
“Come, dear, it’s time for bed.** 

You lie awake for hours, perhaps, wrapped 
in your web of thought; 

The demons of your soul’s unrest that 
words or acts have brought 
you awake, for no one came to kiss 
your rumpled head, 
no voice roused you, loving, sweet 


























SEE it quite plainly though 
fl a years have passed by me 
' — —the old road back 

&«'*.•*. home that once led to 

the mill; 

r . ^ 

'■% Unkept and ungraded it 
twisted and wandered; 
it wound through the 
, ^ __ valley and over the hill. 

Below shone the river in 
glimpses of silver that 
only were seen through the tops of 
the trees. 

Where they, far below in the green of the 
valley, were swayed to and fro by 
the warm summer breeze. 

I see myself now, as I sat on the meal 
sack, my feet spread apart by the 
width of the load. 

Just wishing and wishing the miles would 
grow shorter, the miles that led 
home on that hog-rooted road. 

The squirrels would chatter in trees as I 
passed them; the horse would sleep 
fast as he waddled along; 

The perfume of flowers was strong from 
the valley, and that from the old 
plug was equally strong. 

The meal would creep up, and the sun¬ 
beams would blister; my short legs 
would ache from the spread they 
assumed. 

So what did I care if the creek never 
rippled, and what did I care if the 
dogwood ne-er bloomed? 

I had to get home with that meal for our 
supper; that dusty discomfort, that 
lop-sided load. 

And now I can see it, each mile of its 
many; that wearisome, drearisome 
water-mill road. 

















1z 





HEN we drove to 
church in summer 
in the days of long 
ago, 

And the pike was 
hot and dusty so 
the weeds were 
white as snow. 

On each side it look¬ 
ed like Sunday, 
maybe from some restful cow; 

Maybe from the fact that no one was 
quite bad enough to plow. 

Everything was very quiet, and the world 
seemed full of peace. 

Fields were green and birds would chatter 
everywhere up in the trees. 

And we felt so good and happy, ’til we*d, 
looking backward, find 

That the dog, a dusty whirlwind, was in 
rapid chase behind. 



“Drat that dog!“ our pa would mutter, 
“GO BACK HOME! You hear 
me? GIT!” 

While the dog, amazed and longing, in 
the dusty road would sit. 

And on glancing back our father would 
observe, with anger sore. 

Something, like a yellow dust-cloud, chas¬ 
ing us just as before. 

To be sure somebody snickered; couldn’t 
help it for the world; 

And on him in disapproval—call it that— 
our father whirled; 

So when we would tie the horses with 
the others to a limb. 

And from out the little church house 
came some old familiar hymn. 

On the wagon seat a figure, left alone and 
in disgrace. 

With the streaks of tears still showing on 
his dusty little face 

Listened to the hum of preaching, fighting 
flies in mighty swarms. 

While a dog, elate but dusty, snuggled, 
panting, in his arms. 


















the dollar he had earned. 

And upon the rails receding in the gloo 
his eyes he turned 


*Dey wuz pooty good,’* he mur: 

“Dat’s er fine old game t’ pi; 
3ut dey’s honeymooners sartin; I k 
’em any day.” 


THE TRAIN Hn 

seats adjoining, sat 
a maiden and a 
man. 

Both looked straight 
and hard before 
them, fixedly as 
people can; 

And the porter gazed 
in sorrow; then a 
thought dispelled 
^ his 

They were doing it a purpose; plainly they 
were bride and groom! 

Had he known, he almost hit it; only they 
in bitter pride 

Had been parted by a quarrel and their 
sitting side by side 

Was by chance, a turn of fortune, with 
a touch of bitter-sweet. 

That had left them, cold and distant on a 

single cushioned seat. 

^ y y y y y / / // / / / / 

Then the porter came and whispered 
his broadened view of life— 

“Cunnel, lemme fetch e^pilluh. Spec yuh 
want hit fo* yo* wife.” / 

And departed, grinning broadly as they 
met ,^ach other’s eyes. 

Coming back to find them laughing as he 
handed them the prize. 

/ / / / / / / l / / . / J 

And the porter, on the platform, gripped 

earned. 

















































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